


Danishes

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:52:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Upon the subjects of pastries and puppies.





	Danishes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Danishes by J. C. Sun

Slashx: 4 August 1998  
ArchiveX: 16 August 1998  
Title: Danishes  
Author: J. C. Sun  
Category: VAO  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Upon the subjects of pastries and puppies. m/m interaction. A counterpart to 'Red Lights' and more reason to snicker at 'puppy'. Grovels to Alicia, O Proofreader wonderful . . . <happy sigh>

* * *

The morning is smooth, cool, steel-grey, and the sun comes in thin pale blades lancing through the still streets. It makes his hair the lightest, loveliest ash-blonde, white to the point of radiance, and it reflects upon delicate skin, rendering it a translucent membrane that reveals the line of his neck, the clean sweep of his jaw. The man wavers in the sun, his existence unsure. Pale, washed and drawn from the smooth forehead to the lips half-a-step removed from invisibility, redeemed only by the full, round shape. A sweet contour, delicate, rich, but not overly so, something about the neat upper lip and the smug lower one, the way they fit together, and the little gap between--

For a long, pounding moment, Krycek has a fantasy of tucking it underneath his own and biting down hard: save for the color, that mouth looks like Mulder's, excepting that quality, that loose, fluid feeling that Mulder's mouth has. Perhaps, if this mouth were torn apart, it would possess some of that more pleasing manner.

It's flesh limned in stone, thinks Krycek, leaning back against the wall, flesh limned in stone and painted in black to show the line of torso, from the angular shoulders to the waist, a touch of steel at the ear and fingers to bring out the harshness, not that the ascetic face would have needed it. All rigid planes and lines, thinks Krycek, stone, limned stone.

"You missed your last report."

The voice is smooth, noncommittal. 

Offer no excuses, deny when pressed. 

"Well?"

Krycek shrugs, lights a cigarette with a flick of his fingers and puffs the acrid smoke into the smooth, sculpted face. The contact sniffs, drawing back from the acrid cloud, eyes faintly watering.

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

A growl. 

Krycek sucks in another lungful and expels it into the air. "Mulder doesn't like it, so I usually save it for when I'm away, out of his apartment."

"Obedient little puppy, aren't you?" Derisive smile, gesture to the bag in Krycek's left hand. "Getting Danishes and coffee for your master."

A pause, and the cool, abstract flavor of Krycek's voice is easy upon the unwarmed air. "I should kill you for that."

Arms thrown wide, easy drape of coat from shoulder to hip in a flamboyant cut of Italian leather, the glint of some expensive German firearm tucked far back, the shine sharp and deadly this morning. "If you think you can. . ."

A grin, as Krycek taps the end of his cigarette against the package, the sound echoing in the still alleyway.

The edge of his hand catches the man across the cheek, a loud crack of flesh, then a sharp fists to the stomach, a kick to the knee and . There's a thud of sleek body against rough brick, and Krycek finds himself looking into the most blankly intense eyes he's ever seen: this is the color of gentians on an alpine morning and how first light comes off the North Atlantic, all flat and dispassionately frigid. So brilliant as to be fake, like labeled paint, and about as deep as such, but Krycek catches the faintest edge of fear darting about in a corners. Smiling now, Krycek brings his mouth down for a kiss, a brush of lips across colorless shape, and there's time to watch another emotion flick across those still navy eyes, the faintest arch of hips shifting out.

And then the man's head jerks, thudding from the bullet through his left temple. The body slumps downward, still convulsing faintly in a pool of spreading liquid, little hunks of matter quivering upon the asphalt. Krycek flicks a chunk off his sleeve with something approaching distaste, then examines the man's gun--nice, expensive SIG, all clean metal and strong lines. He tucks it into his pocket: it truly is an excellent piece of work. Then, with a yelp, Krycek realizes that the Danishes might have been squashed when he set them down on the asphalt, but when he checks them, he allows himself a sigh of relief: they're intact, still faintly warm from the bakery. Krycek smiles, satisfied, and sets back out on the main street. He's back at the apartment before anyone notices, before Mulder wakes up and finds his lover gone. 

.end

Comments welcomed at 


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